Amazing Grace
by Magicians Hat
Summary: He chokes on the acrid taste of words he cannot say. She waits, ever patient, for his declaration of what she already knows: she is completion, she is finality, she is wholeness. She is more human than he could ever be and more goddess than he could ever hope to worship. She is contradiction in its most coherent form. Sasusaku Sasu-centric


**Hi all, I hope you enjoy a small character study/introspective jumble from Sasuke's point of view in re: his relationships with Naruto and Sakura as he travels around worlds and saves Konoha from evil (lol). I really do love this pairing but have never written for them before, and I'm not even caught up on anything but I know enough to base this story (I hope). I don't own anything except the summary, which I'm copyrighting because like DAMN I'll probably never write something that good ever again. LOL.**

 **Enjoy!**

A poet, he is not.

Virtually wordless, he makes his way through the conglomeration of worlds he both knows and does not recognize in order to save the lives of those had once thought worthless.

But while he does not seek to compose symphonies of multisyllabic pleasantries or turn phrase to his invisible, nonexistent companions, he often finds himself pondering the etymologies of the words he uses so often.

"Save" — what an interesting word. Does the act of saving make him inherently a 'savior' or do saviors mark themselves for the glory? He likes to think it is the latter. It is the cynic in him.

He knows that most people would be reticent to call him a 'savior' of anything. First of all, he started his life being the recipient of a 'savior.' He wonders if that jades his perception of how much saviors really 'saved,' or if being saved yourself makes it impossible for you to be a savior for others. The inner cynic rears its ugly head once more.

In light of all this — his cynicism, his inability to turn a pretty phrase, his stoic countenance mixed with rocky, turbulent past — he wonders how his life turned him so damned _poetic_.

There is really no other word for it. He, the savior (a title not self-imposed in anything but irony) of worlds, the reformed villain befriended by the loudmouth hero (the saved savior saved once again?) and charmed into loving the demure-yet-fiery girl who came up from behind them and refused to not be noticed. It is so overtly cliché that he almost scoffs at himself. Some individualist he is, even defining himself by those around him.

He likes to think of the constants in his life — it gives him his secretly coveted sense of normalcy that counterbalances how outstandingly _outstanding_ he is in every aspect of his life (be it negatively or positively, he has it covered).

The loudmouth contradiction of a best friend was a constant. The yin to his yang and the bright, vibrant vitality that he would never achieve. The nagging jealousy of the Loudmouth's sunlight where he himself holds a dark disbeliever creates something of a void between the two of them. One that should be, for all intents and purposes, irrevocable and irreparable. And it would be — if not for her and her healing ways. For burning bridges is easily done by one, but to put them back together again is the task of many.

His other constant: the healer. He wonders if the etymologies of "healer" and "savior" share inherent similarities. He wonders if on the outside, "healer" is the descriptor she uses for herself, when in fact "savior" is much more appropriate.

Because really, what are the differences between "healer" and "savior" if not for the connotations? The actions are functionally the same. But for her he will never stop at "healer" and will move on to "savior" without a single trace of the irony the label accompanies when he uses it for himself.

He wonders if this is the closest he can come to affection — the absence of his jaded skepticism to build a wall between them. He wonders if irony is the only way he can differentiate between her and the unimportant masses. If it is, he would not be surprised. He is no poet, so as difficult as words are for him to express, emotions are ever harder. His introspectiveness is wont to cause problems (itching insecurities and emotional distance) but he keeps to himself and allows his mind to wander as he asks himself if he will ever truly be able to find the emotional proximity he knows she so desperately wants.

For her, he will try. He will save — there that word is again — his most precious words for her; offer her respite in the sound of his voice and asylum in his publicized thoughts. For her, he will endeavor to cough up his shortcomings so he can highlight her achievements (the only way he knows is comparison; for him, live is a constant _versus_ , an omnipresent juxtaposition of ways he could get better, worse, closer, farther). He will swallow his pride for her so she can see, feel, smell, taste his devotion to her even if it takes him miles and worlds away.

What he would do to be with her again. The almost infantile sense of longing he feels for her closeness serves as not only a motivator but a distractor that he must manage to his fullest ability (when all he really wants to do is wrap himself up in it and let it swallow him whole). He is her protector and her guardian, distance be damned. He will traverse any terrain to keep her safe, any climate to keep her happy, but stops and often wonders if he can keep her with him. He wonders how her blinding light can afford itself the company of his darkness and has to refer himself back to her careful guidance on many an occasion; for she told him once that there is beauty in contrast and glory in syncretism (although why she would ever assimilate herself with him, with his past and his baggage and his emotional stuntedness, he will never know). Her title of healer proved itself with not only the wounds that make themselves known on his skin but also the ones that nestle themselves deep within his brain, hoping with fiendish entitlement to drive her away from him.

He is in a constant state of both childlike bewilderment and world-weary frustration with her. Yet, somehow, she understands. She can absorb the searing, scalding energies and emotions bouncing off of him like the kind of reverse magnetism he has come to expect from other people. She knows all, sees all, feels all with him.

So he chokes on the acrid taste of words he cannot say. She waits, ever patient, for his declaration of what she already knows: she is completion, she is finality, she is wholeness. She is more human than he could ever be and more goddess than he could ever hope to worship. She is contradiction in its most coherent form.

And so the savior saves his words for her and travels on, and she waits for his return and the beautiful simplicity of his greeting.

 **Review, it makes my heart grow to three times its size!**


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